


late night thoughts.

by forcevalentine



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcoholic Tony Stark, Dialogue Light, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inner Dialogue, No Plot/Plotless, References to Canon, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Has Nightmares, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Tony Stark Has Self-Esteem Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Still Has Arc Reactor, Tony Stark-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27595715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forcevalentine/pseuds/forcevalentine
Summary: There are bigger things to worry about than shards of glass glittering against the carpet, things like the nightmares that plague his sleep and won’t allow him to drift back into what should be a comfortable rest. The nightmares that have slowly driven him to ask Pepper to sleep in a room away from him because he’s worried about what might happen if she continues to sleep next to him. The nightmares that have him here, at Stark Tower, at volatile hours because if he’s here he can drown himself in work rather than sleep.
Relationships: Tony Stark/Pepper Potts (implied)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	late night thoughts.

It is deafeningly quiet in Stark Tower. 

It is the sort of silence in which you can only hear a violent buzzing from the lights, the type where you are utterly alone with only yourself to keep you company. It is silent in the way that you can only hear your thoughts louder, and clearer, than ever before as they come to the front of your mind. Even the most intrusive ones that remain hidden during the daylit hours.

It is deafening in Stark Tower and Tony Stark sits behind a desk, holding a whiskey glass in one hand as he stares at the door of his office slowly feeling himself sink farther, and farther away from himself. 

He isn’t quite sure what possesses him to do it, but with no warning at all -- no thought, just action -- he pulls his hand back and launches the whiskey glass at the door. 

It is the shattering that cuts through the silence that brings him back to the present moment (3:07 AM) and reminds him that he is very real and very much alive. 

He does not move to clean up the glass, and what little remained of the whiskey he had been drinking back when the clock struck midnight.

He isn’t worried about it at all, there are bigger things to worry about.

There are bigger things to worry about than shards of glass glittering against the carpet, things like the nightmares that plague his sleep and won’t allow him to drift back into what should be a comfortable rest. The nightmares that have slowly driven him to ask Pepper to sleep in a room away from him because he’s worried about what might happen if she continues to sleep next to him. The nightmares that have him here, at Stark Tower, at volatile hours because if he’s here he can drown himself in work rather than sleep.

The nightmares have littered his dreams since the battle with Loki, and he isn’t quite sure what to do about them anymore.

They’re only getting worse, and he isn’t seeing much of an option as to what he can possibly do.

Pepper has suggested multiple times that he go see a doctor, but he refuses each and every time she brings it up. He’s worried that if he goes to see them they’ll remove the reactor.

Because without that, what is he besides just another man? 

Billionaire, playboy, genius, philanthropist, sure. 

But what good is being a billionaire when all the money you have to your name came from the slaughter of innocent people in underdeveloped countries?

What good is being a playboy when you’re in a committed relationship?

What good is being a genius when your brain is blocked by some unknown monster that hides in the shadows and creeps up on you in the dead of the night when you least expect it? What good is being a genius when your brain is sick?

And what good is being a philanthropist when your sick brain only reminds you that you don’t do any of this because it’s  _ right _ you only do it so the world stops to stare at you?

What good is it to be Tony Stark?

The answer is simple: it isn’t any good to be Tony Stark, that’s why Tony Stark is Iron Man. 

He is Iron Man because he hates himself in the way only one other person has ever loathed him. He hates himself in the way that only alcohol seems to be able to cure.

But cure is a word used loosely. 

Really, it just makes him feel a little bit better about himself and he hates himself a little less when he’s drinking. But he can only drink in the offseason of his medicine, in the time between prescriptions.

It’s during this time that he feels so much worse. During this time, it feels as though the thoughts are a hundred and three times worse than they normally are. Pepper blames that on the alcohol. She says if he just stopped drinking he would be fine. But he needs it. He needs the alcohol to keep the worst of the thoughts at bay. 

But they are, they are much worse during the offseason. 

Normally the thoughts are bearable. They come and they go in gushes that last a few hours at least or a few days at most. They come in thoughts that seem more like,  _ ‘How old are you? And what the fuck have you done so far, Stark? What have you done besides kill people, children? Absolutely fucking nothing.’ _ But then they leave almost as soon as they come and Tony continues his life, waiting until right before he goes to bed when his reminder goes off to take another pill.

On nights in the offseason, nights like this, they come in tsunamis. They come quickly, and with such force that Tony feels as though he might drown under them. They come and they stay. They come in thoughts that seem to be more like  _ ‘You could jump out the window. No one’s up to stop you. You could do it. It’s not like anyone would really care. Maybe the world would be better off. Pepper could find someone who really appreciates her, there would be no more Tony Stark to haunt the media. It’d really be the closest thing to ending world hunger that you could do.’  _ And they refuse to leave until Tony gets his refill.

It’s nights like these that he thinks about self-medicating in the way he did after his parents’ funeral, the way he does with alcohol. He thinks about all of the experimental drugs he had tried just for the hell of it, and he itches with the need for something to feel  _ better. _ But that’s what the thoughts want from him.

The thoughts want him to dive deep, down into a rabbit hole that he will never be able to escape. They want him to do something that makes Pepper leave him, the thoughts want him to be alone. They want him to be alone because if he is alone, there truly will be no one to stop him from doing what they want him to do.

Maybe that’s why he threw the whiskey, so he couldn’t drink anymore. So he could rest assured knowing he wasn’t doing what the thoughts wanted him to do.

“You’re a mess, Stark,” he tells himself, running a hand through his hair and making it stick up wildly.

_ Yeah, we are, aren't we? _ He asks himself mentally. But the him that answers back isn’t  _ really _ him. It’s the him that only comes out with the thoughts, the him that encourages them. The him that says things like,  _ Put on the suit and see how high you can go. _

The him that equally lives life as a hedonist, as though there simply is no time to stop and stare at the beauty of the world, yet could also never honestly tell you he would get out of the way if there was a chance a bus could hit him.

The him that suffers from suicidal ideation and has for a very long time. 

“We should go to bed,” he says out loud, but he does not even attempt to move. He only stays, sitting in his chair, staring at the door where his line of sight has been fixated for hours. Though, now that he is no longer disassociating he’s having a hard time finding the exact spot he had been looking at. 

_ We should, _ he agrees with himself. Yet still, he does not move. Rather instead he only turns his gaze onto the shards of glass that glitter from the carpeted floor from the excess light of bright sign attached to the building. 

He does this a lot, having conversations with himself that are futile. He knows that these conversations worry Pepper, but they help him organize his thoughts in some weird way. They help him stay focused to at least some degree.

Maybe they aren’t a lot of help, but they’re something.

Without these self-conversations, his mind would be racing at all times, with good and bad thoughts. Thoughts of productivity, and Iron Man, and the bad thoughts all clashing violently against each other causing the same type of clamor that a violent car crash does.

“Maybe I should work on the suit,” he says, this time actually getting up from where he’s been sitting.

_ You don’t have the suit here, do you? _ The him that isn’t really him asks.

“I do,” he answers, pulling a suitcase from under his desk and opening it. Sure, the suit isn’t actually in there, but the digital blueprints of it are.

_ “Sir, shouldn’t you be asleep?” _ JARVIS asks him when he begins to look over the blueprints, looking for places where his suit could be improved. 

“I should be,” he replies, half paying attention to JARVIS, half paying attention to one of the joint pieces of the suit that he knows bends awkwardly.

_ “Then, may I ask, why aren’t you?” _

“You may not ask, JARVIS, do me a favor and zoom in there,” Tony tells his AI.

_ You’re a real dick to him you know, _ he tells himself mentally.

He brushes off his own judgment. He doesn’t have time to hate himself, he has to fix this awkward bending-problem. He has work to do.

Because that’s what Tony Stark does best, he keeps himself busy.

He keeps himself working.

Because when he’s working he’s too busy to hate himself, and if he’s too busy to acknowledge them the thoughts can’t hurt him. 

_ You know, maybe you should just give up the whole Iron Man schtick. It’s not like you’re doing this for the right reasons. You’re doing it for the press, you live for them,  _ he tells himself.

But again: he’s too busy to give the thoughts any real attention. 

So in the blue-glow of his digital blueprint, as he’s focused on watching a video of the way the fingers of the suit curl, he thinks back:

_ Yeah? Well if I didn’t live for the press who would I live for? _

**Author's Note:**

> okay it's shorter than i had wanted it to be, and im not very happy with it. i didn't come into this with any real idea of a plot so, yeah.
> 
> this was originally supposed to be a happy tony/steve thing whoops.


End file.
